


Never enough

by mixiz877



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gunshot Wounds, Hero Sam Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, S13 AU, Wendigo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-18 10:43:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13098426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixiz877/pseuds/mixiz877
Summary: People disappear without a trace in the Chalk Mountains, Colorado. Sam and Dean investigate but soon find themselves in real trouble as the hunters become the hunted.





	1. Chapter 1

"Hey, Dean?"

Sam called and looked up from his laptop. Dean appeared in the doorway, eyes bleary, hair sticking out in a zillion different directions. He stifled a yawn and plonked himself in the chair next to Sam.

"How can you be so awake at this time of day, Sasquatch?" Dean mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"It's almost eleven a.m., Dean. Other people are already thinking about lunch," Sam chuckled, shaking his head minutely.

"Yeah well, other people don't hunt till about five a.m.," Dean grumped back.

"You weren't hunting, Dean. You were drinking. And dude, get a shower. You stink like booze." Sam waved the air between them and scrunched up his nose to make his point.

Dean purposefully breathed on his brother which earned him a jab in the shoulder.

"Was hunting, too. Research is part of hunting."

"Right, what did you research? The bottom of the bottle?" Sam scoffed.

" 'mode's" Dean mumbled.

"Amadeus? Mozart?" Sam raised his eyebrows.

"As-mo-de-us!" Dean punctuated the syllables. "Why would I research a dead piano geek?"

"Ah, so you know about Mozart," Sam jokingly challenged. Dean just spared him a death glare. "Any luck?"

"Nope," Dean replied, smacking his lips.

"Right," Sam relented. "Then maybe you'd be interested in some AWOL folks in Chalk Mountains, Colorado. I'm thinking wendigo."

"Wendigo?" 

Immediately Dean's sleepy, still not sober demeanor was gone. Sam knew how much the current events were getting to his brother. Their mother was lost in another world. Jack was MIA and they knew of at least three other parties looking for the nephilim. Lucifer, Asmodeus - prince of hell - and the angels. Probably also the demons. So Cas had gone after the half angel. A normal hunt was what Dean needed to get his spirits up again.

He scooted closer and stuck his nose in front of the screen, scrutinizing what Sam had found. Sam pushed the laptop in front of his brother. He hadn't been joking about the shower. Finally Dean looked at him, eyes sparkling.

"Right, let me grab a bite to eat and I'm ready to go."

"Oh, no, no, no. I'm not going to spend seven hours in a car with you stinking like sweat and liquor. Shower. Now. Or the hunt is off."

Dean crossed his eyes in exasperation, but lifted his ass up, trudging towards his room.

"Right, fix me some sandwiches then,  _mom_!"

With that Dean was gone, leaving Sam with a gaping mouth at the table. Sam took a moment to get over his brother's attitude and then went to task.

***

After arriving at their destination in the evening, the boys signed into a motel and used the rest of the day to interview some of the missing people's families.

The stories were all the same, hiking out in small groups, the missing ones all disappeared soundlessly and without a trace after either walking up ahead or trailing behind.

All in all the signs served as a red light for the hunters, screaming wendigo all over. They packed their packs with flares and other necessities and decided to head out at first daylight.

Dean dropped down on his bed, watching Sam head off to the shower. A moment later Sam stuck his head back out of the bathroom. 

"Um, Dean, can you throw me my washbag?"

Dean grinned and reached down to pick up the requested bag. But he didn't throw it right away. Instead, Dean unzipped it and peeked inside.

"Stop going through my things, dude," Sam grumbled.

"Relax, Shirley, just making sure your conditioner is in there. Long hair like yours gets messy unless you braid it."

Dean zipped up the bag again and looked up just in time to duck out of the way of Sam's missile aimed at him. The missile being Sam's rolled up socks. 

"Ugh, dude, your socks should come with a warning. Gas mask required," Dean pulled his face in an exaggerated scowl and threw the bag at his brother. 

Sam caught it and stuck out his tongue at Dean before closing the door. When he emerged after half an hour, Dean was flicking through the channels, an empty beer bottle on the ground, a half empty one in his hand.

"Oh, hey there, princess. Would you like a beer now or after I braid your hair?"

Sam just shook his head at his brother's banter and went straight for a beer. They spent the last of the evening watching some B rated movie and drinking beer.

***

"You're crazy." Dean snorted as he climbed over a fallen tree, the trunk slippery with bright green moss. "They're not even in the same league."

Sam shifted his pack so that it rested more comfortably on his shoulders. "Least we can agree on that."

"Batman had that utility belt with all the crime-fighting gadgets."

"Spidey could walk up the sides of buildings," Sam countered. "And he had that whole web thing going for him."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Like any crook with half a brain isn't going to be able to get out of that sticky stuff. And what about cars? Even you have to admit the Batmobile was way cool."

Sam shrugged, ducking under a particularly low branch. "It was okay."

"Okay? Are you serious? I used to dream about driving a car like that when I was a kid," Dean snorted indelicately. "Not that I would trade Baby for anything."

Sam held up his hand for him to stop. Swiping at his sweaty brow with the back of an arm, Dean watched his brother take a swig from the water bottle before handing it over. The water was lukewarm and slightly musty, but the wetness slid easily down his parched throat.

"Thanks."

Sam stowed the bottle back in his pack, squinting up at the pale gold light filtering through the leaves. For at least the tenth time that morning he found himself impatiently shoving long, sweat-dampened tendrils of dark hair out of his eyes. Dean made no attempt to hide a smirk

"Just don't say it," Sam warned, poking a finger at his brother's chest. "We've already established that I need a haircut. You start calling me Shirley again and you're walking home."

Dean pointedly gazed around them. "Dude, you'll be the one walking as long as I have these." He pulled the keys out of his pocket, jingling them. "Besides, I wasn't aware I had a choice."

Sam just grunted and shook his head. "I know you're not a hiker, Dean. Only times you set foot in a forest is when we hunt. I just hope we find that sucker soon. Your whining is intolerable."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Dean's reply was dripping with sarcasm. Sam took a deep breath and decided to let it go. He trudged on ahead, leaving Dean to catch up. His muttering was soon dying down and they walked the narrow path in silence.

About five minutes later Dean, who was distracted by a bootlace that had worked loose, nearly toppled over Sam, who had stopped abruptly in the middle of the trail.

"You might want to signal next time you... Sam? Is something wrong?"

Sam didn't answer right away, his eyes scrutinizing the foliage as he turned in a slow circle. "Thought I heard something."

"Could you be a little more specific? I hear a lot of things. Birds, the wind, my own feet." Dean's eyes narrowed. "If this is another attempt to spook me with killer wildlife..."

Sam gave a sharp shake of his head, eyes still scanning the brush and ears tuned to catch the slightest sound. "Not this time."

Dean frowned, stepping closer so that his shoulder brushed his brother's and immediately mimicking Sam's vigilance. "You're serious about this. Think it's the wendigo?"

Sam shrugged. "Dunno. I've had the strangest feeling all morning. Like we were being watched." He shook his head again and smiled sheepishly. "It's probably nothing." He resumed hiking and Dean fell into step beside him.

"Never say nothing, Sam. I do know there are things in these mountains that are really out to get us, and it's not just a wendigo. But it's too much forest noise for us to be close."

"Yeah, you do have a point."

"No, really, I know I've been whining about humidity and crap, but you're not the only one. I've been having the feeling the hills have eyes as well."

The brothers shared a telling look, both gripping their weapons tighter. They knew they could trust their instincts, and were now both on high alert, observing the forest with sharp eyes.

Two squirrels chased each other through the treetops at breakneck speed, leaping from branch to branch. A woodpecker worked furiously on the trunk of a large oak, beak tapping rhythmically. It was confusing, because the presence of a wendigo was usually accompanied by all wildlife noises ceasing.

A sparkle at the periphery of Sam's vision caught his attention and he turned, squinting through his lashes as he struggled to make out the source. A moment later the answer hit him like a freight train and he reacted without stopping to think.

"Dean, get down!"

He launched himself at his brother, the distinctive crack of a rifle piercing the air a split second before they both tumbled down the embankment into a shallow ditch. A second report followed immediately after the first, kicking up dirt and gravel at the side of the road, and then an unnatural silence blanketed the forest.

Sam remained motionless for a moment, sprawled across Dean, who had landed on his right side. His heart thudded wildly in his chest, and his brother's short, sharp pants for air seared his neck. Slowly, cautiously, he tipped his head up until he could look into Dean's white face.

"That was gunfire."

"I noticed." Dean spoke through locked teeth.

"That's weird," Sam muttered. Dean grunted in agreement.

Sam frowned at the tension in his brother's face and voice. "You all right?"

"Not entirely."

"Not entirely? What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I'm still breathing." Dean grimaced. "Never heard of a wendigo using a gun, Sam. When did they raid the armory?" The sarcasm was forced and Dean's attempted smirk turned into a wince.

Sam quickly rolled off his brother's body but kept his head down. "You're hit? Where?"

"Left leg, above the knee." Dean struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. He made it halfway before his face twisted and he grunted in pain, collapsing onto his back.

"Easy, Dean. Lie still for a minute and let me check things out." Sam's voice was calm, reassuring, but his eyes betrayed him.

Hands traveled carefully down Dean's thigh, pausing a few inches above the knee. A tug and the sound of ripping cloth and Dean stared up at his brother's face, jaw set, lips compressed to a thin line.

"That good, eh?"

Sam's eyes met his for only a moment before sliding away. "Brace yourself. I've got to check for an exit wound."

Fingers slipped under Dean's knee and white-hot agony shot through his leg from hip to toes, wrenching an involuntary cry from his lips. His eyes slammed shut, sparks dancing across the lids, while a rushing sound like the surf on a windy day filled his ears. Sam's voice, at first nothing more than an insistent buzz, gradually resolved into words.

"...so sorry, Dean, I had to know. Stay with me, dude. That's it, c'mon back."

Dean blinked, wrestling with a tongue turned thick and clumsy. "Still in there."

Sam grimaced. "Yeah. Most likely in the bone, which is why it hurts like a son of a bitch. But then, I don't have to tell you that." He cautiously lifted his head high enough to peer out of the ditch, panning the forest. "We've got to get out of this hole and into the cover of the trees. If we stay here we're sitting ducks."

Dean licked his lips. "I was hoping we could chalk this up to a hunter with bad eyesight. You think it was intentional?"

"Whoever it is had a high-powered scope trained on us. I spotted the reflection right before he fired. So, definitely no wendigo." Sam slipped his pack off his shoulders and rummaged through it, pulling out a clean t-shirt. With his knife he tore the fabric into several large strips. "You're bleeding like a stuck pig. I've got to try to slow it down or we'll be leaving a neon sign for him to follow." He paused. "That means putting pressure on the wound." A slight tremor spoiled the matter-of-fact tone.

Dean met his gaze without flinching. "Do it."

Sam nodded, giving his brother's shoulder a squeeze. He folded one of the cloth strips into a square, laid it over the wound, and with a last, apologetic glance, pressed down firmly.

No sparks this time around. An explosion of pain so intense Dean thought the top of his head might blow off before darkness blotted out the distress in Sam's face.

He surfaced dizzy and disoriented, the need to vomit nearly overwhelming. Everything around him bounced and swayed so whenever he attempted to open his eyes, the nausea tripled. His head throbbed, his leg was on fire, and someone was swearing a blue streak. A gunshot, then two more, and the bouncing became a gut-churning lurch.

"Oh, God, I'm gonna puke."

Dean wasn't sure if he said it or thought it, but his brother's voice, tense and breathless, cut through the haze.

"Hang on, hang on, almost there."

Snapping and rustling sounds preceded the brush of leaves against his dangling arms. Dean abruptly realized he was hanging upside down, in a fireman's carry, over Sam's shoulder as his brother jogged through the forest. Icy droplets of water pelted his cheeks when Sam tromped through a small, shallow stream and then scuffled awkwardly down a steep slope. Despite caution, about five feet from the bottom Sam tripped on a root and nearly lost hold of him. Dean's head plunged precariously toward a large rock before Sam regained his balance, cursing under his breath.

Just when Dean was certain neither his stomach nor his leg could endure another minute, Sam's frenetic steps slowed, then stopped. He eased Dean gently to the ground, propping his upper body against the trunk of a large tree, and peered into his green eyes.

"Hey, Dean. How you doing?"

Dean stared blearily at him. _My leg is killing me and I just spent the last five minutes slung over your shoulder like yesterday's garbage. How the hell do you think I'm feeling?_

He opened his mouth to retort, but instead lunged to the left and proceeded to lose every bit of the breakfast Sam had prepared that morning. Each twist of his gut provoked a corresponding spasm in his injured leg until he was doubled over, panting and grunting in pain.

Cool fingers at the back of his neck, a strong arm curled around his middle, supporting him. When the violent cramping in his stomach eased, Sam held the water bottle to his lips so that he could rinse his mouth, then settled him back against the tree. Dean shivered helplessly as his brother dampened a scrap of cloth and wiped his face.

"Where are we?" The words jittered and trembled as badly as his body.

Sam stripped the pack from his shoulders, dug out the discarded sweatshirt, and helped him slip it on. "About a half mile north of the road. This seemed a good spot to stop and get our bearings." He reached over to brush an errant lock of hair off Dean's sweaty forehead. "We got problems, Dean."

Dean's mouth twisted. "You think?"

"Yeah, man. You can't walk and someone out there is using us for target practice. Plus, for all we know, there's still a wendigo out there. I've been trying to get us back to the Impala, but whoever is hunting us, he's always placing himself in between us and the car. He knows."

"Damn," Dean muttered, willing down the sickening, throbbing pain in his leg. He was used to walking injured. But the slug was still stuck in his bone and the pain was bordering on someone playing guitar on exposed dental nerves. 

"I'm sorry, Dean. I had hoped a normal hunt would help us both out. And for now it looks like we're the prey."

Dean ground his teeth together to prevent them from chattering. "C... cut yourself some sl... slack. It's not like we c... could've predicted some nut would be t... taking potshots at us. 'Cos there's n... no way that's a wen... digo doing that."

"Yeah, well, the idea is to be prepared for anything," Sam muttered. "I sure as hell know that. It's like number one on Dad's list."

He dug through his own pack and produced a small first aid kit. Dean looked down at the blood-soaked bandage tied around his leg, swallowed hard, and glanced away.

"I wasn't exactly... at the top of my game... when you were hauling my ass out of that ditch... but I thought I heard more shots."

"Yep. You heard right." Sam gingerly cut away the bloody cloth with his knife. "Our friend started firing the minute I lifted my head. Nearly took it off." He opened the small bottle of bottom shelf liquor they always had for emergencies and paused.

"I know, I know. Got to be done." Dean tipped his head back against the rough bark and stared up into a spray of yellow leaves that undulated gently in the breeze. "What's the plan now anyway?"

"There should be a cabin not too far out. I studied the map last night after you were snoring away your beer."

Sam flushed the wound and blotted with a clean corner of the t-shirt strips, holding Dean's leg steady when his brother's body turned rigid.

"Dude, I don't snore," Dean pressed through gritted teeth, trying to sound offended without much success.

Sam continued to speak softly and slowly, flinching slightly when the fingers of Dean's right hand buried themselves in his shoulder.

"Problem is, we'd be sitting ducks. We've got no cell reception and no transportation, Dean. And you probably need a doctor."

"No doctor," Dean growled. "You can dig out the s... slug and stitch me up."

"When we're at a safe place, Dean. You gotta hold on a bit longer."

Sam packed the wound once more and bound it with more strips from his t-shirt. By the time he'd finished, Dean was panting as if he'd run a marathon, drenched in sweat and wracked with tremors. Sam set aside the kit and moved between Dean and the tree with his brother's body pulled against his chest, soaking up his warmth.

"Easy, Dean. Deep breaths."

After several minutes Dean's trembling abated and his frantic gulps for air slowed. "Let me get... this straight. We're heading... for a random cabin? Might be the nutcase's home, dude."

Sam nodded quietly. "Don't see what choice we have. That place is our best hope for getting out of this mess."

Dean let his head drop against his brother's shoulder. "Sam... Maybe you should go without me. I could wait here...for you to bring help."

Sam stiffened. "No way. I'm not leaving you for that psycho to hunt down. We stay together."

Softly, little more than a whisper. "I'm not sure I can make it, Sammy."

Sam's reply was rough. " _You_ don't have to.  _We_ will. Together."

"Then consider this. Whoever's behind that rifle... went to a lot of trouble... to keep us away from... my Baby."

Sam cranked his head to look into his brother's face. "What are you saying?"

"That I don't think... this run of bad luck... is over yet. That c... cabin might just be the... next stop on this ride."

"All the more reason not to split up."

Sam eased Dean forward and stood. He meticulously replaced the contents of their packs and slung them both onto his shoulders before squatting down beside his brother.

"We need to move. You ready?"

Dean gave him an incredulous look, then nodded. Sam slid his hands under his brother's armpits and lifted, steadying him when he wobbled like a newborn colt. He slipped Dean's right arm over his shoulder and looped his own around his brother's waist.

"Okay, we'll take it nice and easy. Cutting straight north through the forest should take us to the road. It'll be rough going but should be close to that cabin. Just holler when you can't keep up and we'll take a break, relax a few minutes."

"Sure. I'll bring the wine and cheese." Dean ground the words out through his teeth, blinking against the blackness hovering on the edge of his vision.

Sam snorted and started walking, supporting his brother so that he could keep most of the weight off his injured leg. "If this is your idea of a party, big brother, next time you can leave me off the guest list."

Dean concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and remained silent, conserving his strength.

***

"We've got to find the cabin. Maybe there's a phone line there," Sam panted after they'd more or less stumbled across branches and stones for about an hour.

" 'M okay. I can... keep going."

Sam looked over at his brother, a mixture of amusement, tenderness, and irritation clouding his features. "Dean, you and 'okay' aren't even in the same zip code."

"What's that... supposed to mean?" Dean's voice, wispy and breathless, betrayed his exhaustion and pain as plainly as his pale, drawn face.

"It means I've seen stiffs that looked better than you do right now." Sam was breathing hard himself, the strain of bearing most of his brother's weight in addition to his own turning an already strenuous hike into a nightmare. "Look, I'm about done in myself.  Last thing we need is to tumble off a cliff."

"Well... when you put it... that way..."

"Hang on a minute." Sam hesitated, eyes scanning the dense foliage surrounding them. "Over here."

He tipped his head in the direction of a shallow ravine about twenty feet down a steep grade peppered with loose stones and shale.

"Are you... crazy? I'll never make it... down that... without breaking my neck. And yours." Dean's voice vibrated with frustration and weariness.

"I know it's risky, but we'll take it nice and slow. Trust me on this one, Dean, I know what I'm doing."

Even at a snail's pace, the trip down the slope was treacherous. Stones, polished smooth by rain, defied the traction of their boots, and tree roots poked from the soft earth to catch unsuspecting toes. By the time they reached the bottom Sam was gulping air like a drowning man and Dean was a dead weight, his chin pressed to his chest and his eyes reduced to slits.

"Almost there," Sam panted, dragging his brother along the floor of the ravine to an area bathed in shadow from the surrounding trees and a slab of rock that protruded from the side of the hill. "Just a little further, almost there." He wasn't sure if he was talking to the limp form in his arms or himself.

Sam eased Dean down with his back against a large boulder and dropped the packs from his shoulders with a groan of gratitude. He braced his hands in the small of his back and stretched until his spine cracked, then rolled his shoulders and massaged his neck. Never taking his eyes off his brother, slumped against the rock like a broken doll, his only movements the harsh rise and fall of his chest and fingers that clutched and kneaded the flesh just above the bandage on his leg.

"You still with me?"

One eye cracked open. "Just trying to decide... whether to go dancing... or send out for pizza."

Sam snorted. "While you're deciding, I'm going to scout out the road over there. Wanna see if the cabin's in sight, yet. Stay put, okay?"

"If you... insist."

Dean let his head sag back against the rock with a soft thump and tracked the crunch of Sam's boots. His head throbbed relentlessly, his leg was on fire, and the cool stone at this back increased his shivering.

Dean had no idea how much time had passed. He opened his eyes when he felt Sam's hand on his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he looked straight into his brother's worried ones.

"Whatsa matter? Something wrong?"

The raspy voice evoked a lopsided grin from Sam. He watched Dean wrestle with his eyelids and blink owlishly, brow furrowed.

Sam snorted. "Wrong? What could be wrong? There's a deranged killer after us, you've got a bullet in your leg. At least I got a bit of good news. Cabin's about just a mile out."

"Oh, is that it? I was afraid Lucifer was dancing in the rain cos he found Jack." Deadpan. Sarcasm and dry wit intact.

The fist around Sam's heart loosened, and he rolled his eyes. "Very funny. How's the leg?"

Dean licked his lips, grimaced. "I'd rather talk about Lucifer."

Sam nodded, wishing he could take some of the pain on himself, wishing Cas was around and with powers. He sighed.

"I know you're done in. But as near as I can figure we're almost there. I just need you to keep going a little longer."

Dean dipped his head. "Let's get this... over with."

Packs on his shoulders, Dean's arm slung around Sam's neck, they lumbered onward. Though Dean valiantly tried to help, with each step Sam found himself bearing more and more of his brother's weight, until his back screamed in protest and each breath cut like a knife through his lungs. They scrambled along the edge of the road, up a small hill, nearly tumbling head-over-heels on the way down when Sam's foot caught on a half buried rock.

Half an hour later, Dean's dead weight became even heavier. Sam looked up and let out a small sigh of relief. Two hundred yards ahead, shaded by several large maple trees, was the back of a log cabin.

"That's it!" Sam crowed. "We made it, Dean!"


	2. Chapter 2

 

Caution abruptly dampened Sam's euphoria and he tugged his brother backward several steps into the cover of the woods while he scrutinized the cabin and the surrounding area. A blue jay chased several smaller birds from a feeder before settling down to claim the spoils. Two smaller trees served as anchors for a clothesline, where three white tee shirts and a pair of navy pants flapped in the light breeze. Wisps of smoke drifted from a stone chimney.

The heavy thump of his brother's head hitting his shoulder made Sam's decision for him. Dean's eyes slipped shut, then shot open as he fought to hold onto consciousness.

"Looks quiet to me," Sam muttered. "C'mon, Dean. Just a few more steps and we'll find you a place to lay down."

They limped around the side of the cabin. A long gravel driveway snaked through the trees and up to an attached garage, the door three quarters of the way closed. A porch ran past the front door along the entire front of the cabin and an empty rocking chair creaked back and forth in the wind. 

One foot on the porch, hand coming up from his side to knock, Sam froze. Eyes locked on the two- by ten-foot slice of garage revealed by the partially open door. Lips tightening to a thin line he shuffled back around the corner to press their backs tightly against the side of the cabin.

"What's wrong?" Like the flick of a switch, Dean's voice was sharp, alert. "What is it?"

Sam eased him to the ground, dropping both packs and opening his own. "I got a peek at the car in the garage. There's something there." He pulled out his gun and stood. "Stay here. I'll be back."

Dean squinted up at him. "Are you crazy? That nutcase could be just waiting for you."

"I'll be careful. I just need a look, alright?"

The strange pile he'd noticed in the garage was a bunch of torn, bloody clothes. Immediately, Sam's caution doubled. He glanced back at Dean, who'd pulled out his Colt from the back of his jeans. He seemed lucid enough to use it, so Sam decided to explore further.

He continued along the side of the cabin, around the corner, and toward the back door with his spine firmly against the wood. French doors opened onto a large deck. Sam flattened himself to the left of the door, inching his hand out until he could curl his fingers around the knob.

It turned, easily.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sam nudged the door open.

"Hello? Anyone home?"

Nothing. The jay and several other birds took flight, the laundry continued to flap in the breeze, and smoke still wafted from the chimney. Sam tilted his head to peer through the glass. Colorful braid rugs on a polished hardwood floor. A large stone fireplace, the remains of a log smoldering on the grate. Everything seemed in place. Except a living being.

Carefully, Sam made his way inside, staring at bizarre collections of eyes. Whether they were animal or human, Sam couldn't tell. A jar with what looked like teeth sent a shudder down his spine and he gripped his gun even tighter.

The inside looked like a horror cabinet that had been left to the spiders and dust mice as well as real rodents. Clean was not the word Sam would choose to describe it and the ominous sense of déjà vu wouldn't leave his mind.

Abruptly, inexplicably, the hairs on the back of Sam's neck stood up. He swallowed, dry throat clicking, lay his palm against smooth, six-paneled pine, and pushed.

The smell hit him immediately. Thick, coppery, it filled the air and left a bitter tang in the back of his throat. A large four-poster bed faced the door, a handmade quilt covering the distinctive form of a man lying prone atop the mattress. Crimson splatters adorned the quilt, walls, and even the ceiling like a bizarre work of modern art.

Still clutching his weapon, Sam walked slowly forward on stiff legs, the back of his hand pressed across his nose and mouth. The quilt cocooned all of the motionless form but a small fluff of steel gray hair. Sam stretched out his hand and plucked at the blanket with thumb and forefinger, drawing it carefully back to expose a face.

"Oh my god."

The words felt torn from his numb lips, and he actually staggered backward two steps before he caught himself. He closed his eyes, breathed through his mouth, and waited for his pounding heart to slow.

"Sam! Are you all right?"

He gasped, spinning, eyes wide. Dean leaned in the doorway, a white-knuckled grip on the jamb all that was holding him upright.

"Sam?"

"We made a mistake, Dean. It's not what we thought."

His brother's eyes darted to the bed, took in the carnage. "What are you talking about? You're not making sense."

Sam gestured to the body. Dean glanced over and immediately caught the distinct marks on it. Marks one would find on an animal that'd been hunted. Dean looked at Sam who now pointed at the various jars of body parts. Eyes, teeth, ears. Bile rose in Dean's throat as his brain made the connection.

"Well, that sure as hell wasn't a wendigo," he muttered. He pushed off the door frame and stumbled over to his brother. Three steps from his target Dean stumbled and nearly went down on the slippery hardwood floor. His sharp hiss of pain snatched Sam from his own musings just in time to snag a handful of Dean's jacket and halt the plunge.

"Thought I told you to stay put." The gruff words were a reflex, spoken without malice. Sam draped his brother's arm around his neck, steadying him. Dean proceeded to try and shrug Sam off, ignoring his brother's remark. Together they made their way out of the chamber into the main room.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Dean panted.

"Hibbing, Minnesota, 2006," Sam nodded.

"The Benders," Dean grimaced. "I thought the deputy shot them."

"I think she only shot the old man," Sam tried to think back. "I think his sons just got locked away. Dunno what they did to the girl."

"Well, whatever they did sure wasn't enough," Dean growled. "They're at it again and I'm betting you the keys to the Impala they staged the wendigo attacks to lure us here. Question is how." 

"How? Um, yeah, I mean, we know why," Sam replied.

"Yeah, revenge. Eye for an eye or whatever their twisted sense of justice is," Dean muttered, unconsciously rubbing his left shoulder where all those years ago Pa Bender had stuck the red hot poker in it. Dean shuddered as he remembered how close he'd come to having his eyes in one of those jars.

"They have no sense of humanity," Sam huffed. "They might be merely human but they're worse than many a monster we've encountered."

"Yeah. And the how... how did they know how to lure us here? They didn't peg me as big believers in the supernatural." Dean wobbled a bit and braced himself on a chest of drawers. "Hate to say it, Sam, but I think we better get out of here."

Sam nodded his agreement and turned back to the door. Immediately Dean sensed a subtle shift in his brother's posture as Sam abandoned his movement. At the same time he stretched out his left arm to shift Dean behind him, allowing his right arm to drop behind the shield of their bodies.

This act of protectiveness didn't sit well with Dean. He was about to growl that injured or not, he could take care of himself, when he realized that slowly, discreetly Sam was inching his fingers toward his back pocket. Dean grit his teeth tighter and willed down the nausea he'd felt rising in his stomach.

Mimicking Sam's motion, Dean peeked around his brother and came eye to eye with the reason for his tenseness. In the door frame stood not one, but both Bender brothers. Dean's hand wrapped around the handle of his Colt at the same time the Bender brothers raised their sawed off shotguns.

"Well, I'll be damned," Dean croaked from behind his brother. "It's the yahoos. When did they spring you from the rat hole?"

"Dean," Sam hissed, silently cursing his brother's need to rile up their opponents. "Not now."

"Hear that, Lee? That one still thinks he's funny. Oh, I'm gonna take an eye for sure this time. And maybe the tongue," Jared Bender drawled to his brother.

"Tongue's good Jared," Lee agreed. "Tastes like chicken." He smacked his lips in delight.

Dean's stomach churned at the notion. He rested his hand on his brother's back, not sure whether for support or just to make sure he stayed upright.

"Oh, and beanpole? When you've finally located whatever it is you're searching for in your back pocket, you can put it right over here on the table."

Sam yanked an object from his pocket and tossed it onto the coffee table. It was his hunting knife. Apparently the yahoos were happy as they didn't ask for the gun he'd actually been aiming for. Sam bared his teeth in a fake smile.

"Anything else I can get you? Coffee? Tea? Eyeballs?"

The killers' faces contorted into a snarl and Jared's finger tightened on the trigger. He seemed to catch himself, consciously pushing aside anger as his expression smoothed and he gestured casually with the gun after exchanging a glance with Lee. "Take a seat. Our boy Dean, there, looks like he's about to keel over."

Sam had already begun moving Dean toward the couch. It was best to play along for the moment. Dean was in a bad way and Sam knew that nothing could keep his stubborn ass brother from fighting if he felt Sam's life was at risk. Dean's soft grunt of discomfort as he banged his knee against the coffee table regained Sam's attention.

"Sorry," he murmured, lowering Dean carefully. "You okay?" He watched his brother lose the battle to remain upright, his head flopping back onto the cushions.

Dean's eyes, the only bit of color in his face, blinked lazily and his tongue swiped at dry lips. "Peachy." He graced his brother with a lazy wink and Sam noticed the hand Dean kept behind his back was shoving his Colt underneath a cushion.

Sam blinked his eyes, straightened and turned. "Look, guys. I want to get one thing straight. I don't know how you knew to lure us here or figured out my brother's name, but leave Dean out of it."

"What? So you can have all the fun to yourself?" Dean quipped raspily.

The taller Bender circled slowly until he was standing directly opposite Sam and Dean. "No, you get something straight, Mr. Bigshot Hero. In case you haven't noticed, you're in no position to give orders. Now shut the hell up and sit down or the next load is going to take your brother's pretty face right off."

The threat, backed by the cold fury in the man's eyes, matched only by the stare his brother held on them, gun at the ready, effectively extinguished Sam's immediate defiance. He dropped down beside Dean, lips compressed to a thin line.

"Right, that's better," Lee smirked, shotgun never wavering from Dean. "Now, Jared and I decided we're gonna pick up where we left off, about... twelve years ago. Unless I'm mistaken, my brother and I were going to hunt you." He trained his gaze pointedly at Sam.

"Until your brother decided to spoil the party," Jared chimed in.

Dean snorted derisively and Jared rounded on him. "You think this is funny?"

Dean pressed a shaky hand to his chest, widened his eyes theatrically. "Me? No, I don't think you're funny." He waited a beat, then added, "I think you're pathetic."

Color crept up Jared's neck until his whole face flushed, and he went very still, Lee a spitting mirror image. "Pathetic?" He ground the word between his teeth like chewing a bone.

Sam tensed, alarmed that his brother had inadvertently provoked their captors. Until Dean's fingers squeezed his shoulder and he caught a gleam of satisfaction in his brother's eye, the truth hitting him like a sucker punch. Dean's needling was calculated, deliberate. Sam swallowed thickly and waited before giving a tiny nod. Dean, crafty as ever despite being wounded, had a plan.

"Yeah, pathetic. All of you are. Remember we  hunt monsters like you... for a living. If we'd actually... get paid. You're all the same... think you're Manson, Bundy, and Hannibal Lecter rolled into one. Superkiller. But guess what, you can't beat vampires, werewolves or other demonic beings." He laughed.

Jared lifted his gun from Sam, now pointing it at Dean as well, his finger twitching on the trigger. "You won't think it's so funny when I add another hole to your head."

"Dean...," Sam hissed, hoping to add to Dean's plan.

Dean waved Sam off, his brief glare communicating his intentions as clearly as words.  _Wait. Be ready._

"Oh, come on," he said to the brothers, laughter still lingering in the smirk twisting his lips. "You're a smart guy... right? Surely you... can see the irony. You think you've got control... 'cause you wave around a gun... when the truth is... you're powerless. You're enslaved by... the sick compulsion...to hunt, and kill. You used to get away with it... and now you keep coming back. Eventually... your own weakness... will get you caught. It already... did once."

As Dean spoke, Lee's breathing had accelerated to short, sharp pants nearly as forceful as his own respiration. Every muscle in the killer's body seemed wired, like a cat poised to pounce.

"You don't know what you're talking about. I've planned every move we've made. We've run circles around you both, you never knew what hit you in the woods. Now we're gonna let you go, then hunt you down and kill you." Lee shot a glance at Jared. "We'll give you ten minutes headstart, since you're a gimp now." He chuckled humorlessly.

Dean braced himself, licking his dry lips and forcing a chuckle himself. "Yeah, that's dumb all right. Told you... you're just like all the rest."

The jab found its mark. Lee launched himself at Dean with a growl, the gun nearly forgotten in his rage. Dean had just enough time to choke out, "Sam, now!" before the yahoo seized him by the throat and dragged him to his feet.

A fierce but eerily silent struggle commenced as Dean fought to break Lee's grip while Sam jumped Jared. As Sam clutched Jared's wrist with both hands, desperately searching for the pressure point that would compel him to drop his weapon, the gun swung wildly. First toward Sam, then Jared, and finally discharging harmlessly into the ceiling.

Jared cursed, while Lee tightened his fingers around Dean's throat until a high pitched whine filled his ears and black dots obscured his vision. His eyelids fluttered and his arms fell loosely to his sides.

Sam ground his foot onto Jared's and shoved, momentarily throwing the man off balance. Before he could press his advantage, however, he sensed his brother's stillness. He turned, terrified to see Dean hanging limply in Lee's grasp, lips blue. The split-second distraction was all Jared needed. He punched Sam on the jaw, causing the younger Winchester to stumble back onto the couch like a rag doll and followed up with a hard blow just under Sam's ribs. All the air whooshed out of Sam's lungs, sending him into a fierce coughing fit.

Lee grabbed the semi-conscious Dean by the hair and jammed his weapon up under his chin.

"You stupid son of a bitch! I oughta waste him right now. Is that what you want? Huh?"

Sam struggled to remain conscious, spitting and gagging on the blood that flooded his mouth. "No! Don't! We'll play your game."

"You try something stupid like that again and..."

"We won't. I swear we'll cooperate," Sam ground out between clenched teeth. Lee pushed Dean back on the couch and into Sam.

Dean's breathing had evened out somewhat and while Sam noticed his brother's eyes were still closed, he felt his muscles tense where their bodies touched. They both knew this was bad, but they'd come out on top against even greater odds. Sam still had his gun hidden and Dean's was just in reach underneath that couch cushion.

The Bender brothers shared a look and then took a step back to discuss something quietly. Sam glanced at Dean and saw him looking back through tiny slits.

"We have to... take them out, Sammy," Dean whispered. "It's either them or us."

Sam nodded, having come to the same conclusion. They'd have to be quick, though, because Dean really was not in the shape for a prolonged fight.

"Me right, you left," Sam replied, sliding his hand slowly behind himself to pull out his gun. Before he could complete his move, Lee walked over to him, shotgun pointed right at him. 

"Beanpole, go join my brother," he ordered.

Sam swallowed and glanced at Dean, who was playing possum.

"Now!" Lee bellowed, jabbing the muzzle against Sam's shoulder before grinning cheesily. "Don't worry about that pretty here. I'll take care of him." 

The younger Winchester was itching to wrap his hands around Lee's throat but he did as he was told. Leaving the gun where it was tucked in his jeans he got up and slowly made his way towards Jared, who had long reloaded his shotgun.

Sam kept his eyes on Lee as he walked over to Jared. Dean was still unmoving but Sam knew he was waiting for the right moment. When he turned to Jared he noticed the movement in the corner of his eye before he heard Lee's gasp.

"Jared, son'a'bitch has a gun!"

With no second to spare Sam was armed and aiming at Jared, whose shotgun was almost in his own face. Dropping while aiming, the guns discharged at the same time.

Sam felt a slight sting on his left shoulder as some of the pellets penetrated his flesh. The main load of them ended up in the wall behind Sam as Jared dropped down like a rag doll, eyes open but unseeing. Sam's bullet had pierced his heart as a rapidly spreading crimson stain on the man's shirt showed.

Immediately Sam pivoted around, gun trained at the spot where Lee had been standing only moments before. The man was now sprawled across Dean on the couch. Hundreds of tiny holes in the wall behind the couch told Sam his ammo had not found its aim. Lee was gasping like a fish, left hand pressed to his gut, blood welling through the fingers and dripping down on Dean... whose gun was still pressed to Lee's stomach..., the couch and the floor.

Dean was struggling to push the heavy man off himself. His eyes were wide and he grunted in pain and Sam realized that Lee's knee was pressing against the gunshot wound above Dean's knee... the one with the bullet still in. 

Sam stepped closer to drag Lee off Dean, but Lee, in an effort to fight back, managed to lift his gun arm and dropped the heavy weapon right in Dean's face. When he lifted it up to repeat the motion, another gunshot pierced the air in the room and Lee pivoted back, spinning off the couch, body now slack. A circular hole above his left eye was witness to Sam's spot on marksmanship.

"Dean!" 

"Son of a  _bitch_ ," Dean shouted as he scrambled to sit up. He was a gruesome sight, even though Sam knew that most of the blood staining him wasn't his brother's.

A cut near the bridge of Dean's nose was bleeding, running into his eyes. Dean wiped at it, smearing his whole face red.

"Relax, Dean, we got them both," Sam called and helped his brother to his feet. Dean was not putting any weight on his injured leg and swaying badly against Sam's side. Then, without a warning, he twisted away from Sam and puked.

"Fuck me," Dean mumbled when he was done, spitting out as much of the bitter taste in his mouth as he could. He looked around the room, face ashen. "I gotta get out of here."

Without a word, Sam pulled Dean's arm across his shoulder and dragged more than lead Dean onto the porch where he sat him down in the rocking chair. Dean gulped in the fresh air, for a minute just concentrating on breathing.

In the meantime Sam had spotted an SUV behind the building and wasted no time to get it around. He hotwired the blue vehicle and left it idling right in front of the porch where Dean was waiting.

"Ready to blow this joint?"

"Hell, yes," Dean muttered and got to his feet.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_**EPILOGUE** _

 

 

Dean woke up to a searing hot pain in his leg. His eyes flew open with a silent cry. Immediately he felt a steadying hand on his chest.

"Lay still, Dean. I almost got it. You'll be okay."

Realizing he was back in their motel room, Dean took as deep a breath as he could and then lifted his head to inspect Sam's handiwork. His brother was using a knife to dig out the bullet that had been stuck in his thigh for the last 24 hours.

"You got... another career waiting... as a butcher, Sammy," Dean panted.

"I'm sorry, Dean. Almost had it. Can you hold still one last time? Promise I'll get it out."

Dean closed his eyes and nodded as sweat was starting to roll down his face and neck. His hands fisted in the sheets underneath him and when Sam offered him a rolled up cloth to bite on, Dean gratefully opened his mouth.

"Okay, hold still, Dean."

Sam picked up his knife again, washing off the blood with a trickle of antiseptic they'd had in the car. Then he gently placed his hand on Dean's thigh, above the wound, and carefully slid the knife in. 

When the tip hit the metal of the bullet, he felt his brother tense. Swiftly, he slipped the knife around and behind and with a determined push, the deformed bullet rose up until Sam could grab it with his fingers. He pulled out the knife and pressed a folded up towel on the wound as Dean spat out the cloth and grunted through the reverberating pain.

"That's it, Dean, I got it." Sam doused the towel in more antiseptic and washed the wound. Then he offered his brother painkillers and a glass of water. Dean quickly downed the pills and relaxed back. Soon Sam had stitched and wrapped up his leg.

"Booked us another night, Dean. Try and lay still as much as possible and tomorrow we'll head back to the bunker. I'll drive."

"The hell you will," Dean growled.

"That, or we stay," Sam said firmly. Dean glared at him. 

"Your leg is a mess, Dean."

"It's my left leg, asshat. I don't need it to drive," Dean countered.

Sam rolled his eyes, knowing he couldn't win this. "Right. We take turns. Or we stay."

Dean glared at him, but Sam didn't shrink back.

"Fine," he then agreed. "But I go first."

"Deal," Sam smiled. "Now sleep off all the booze and pills I had to get into you. Or the deal is off."

Dean sighed and settled down in the sheets. As Sam got up to get rid of all the bloodied pieces of fabric he heard his brother mumble just loud enough for him to hear.

"Bitch."

Sam smiled. "Jerk."

**Author's Note:**

> An eye for an eye is never enough.  
>  _Adrian Phoenix_


End file.
